


If the World Was Ending

by Make_It_Worse



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Apocalypse, Break Up, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, End of the World, Eventual Happy Ending, Feelings Realization, Flashbacks, Getting Back Together, Hope, Hope vs. Despair, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Break Up, Survival, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:33:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24049759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Make_It_Worse/pseuds/Make_It_Worse
Summary: They’d wanted different things. Connor was too young; Hank was too old. Awkward double dates and blistering fights over the future had built the tension to an epic crescendo. Connor had thought it was their penultimate fight. He thought they’d talk it out, like they always did, and buy a little more time before they accepted the inevitable.They’d fight then they’d fuck and everything would look a little better in the morning light. He hadn’t realized it was how Hank had chosen to say goodbye. He hadn’t realized he’d wake up to Hank with a suitcase in his hand and a grim line in place of his mouth.--Inspired by current events and the lyric, "If the world was ending / You'd come over, right?"
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 18
Kudos: 82





	If the World Was Ending

It’s quieter in the shopping malls without any people in them. Connor picks his way across weed-choked walking paths that seem needlessly large in retrospect. The escalator once ferried people from the food court to the upper-level boasting store after store of suspiciously similar clothing. Connor stoops, fingering through the layers of debris and produces a disintegrating piece of fabric for his efforts. He remembers the brand’s logo better than the clothes themselves. It was an expensive label for reasons that don’t make sense anymore.

A fragment of plaster and melted vinyl plummets down to the lush carpet of vines and tufts of grass. It hadn’t taken long for the determined mossy tussocks to break free of the concrete that well-intentioned, business-minded people had lain. Connor brushes the piece of fallen sky away. It’s not the grass’ fault the world ended. It was trying to survive despite unpleasant conditions. Connor could appreciate that.

A small bit of sky shows through one of many holes in the ceiling. It won’t be safe for much longer to make these trips, but there’s a part of him that clings to humanity and the way life was before. Connor’s heart taps a confused tattoo, missing a beat then two before hammering to catch up and fall back into place. Unpleasant memories leap out at him from the past, reminding him of what he’d lost well before the sirens blared and the world went dark.

It may be harder now in a lot of ways, but it hurts a little less.

“Lay off, Markus,” the past echoes through Connor’s empty surroundings, and the greenery shrinks away from it, rippling back to what this place had once been. Smooth, white walls—too pristine to be allowed—and perfectly square tiles race away from Connor’s feet, dropping him into a reverie.

“Connor—,” Markus had reached out to squeeze his shoulder and Connor drooped under the touch until Markus relented.

“I’m fine Markus. It’s fine.” The words had the salty bitter taste of a lie, but Markus knew better than to push.

They’d wanted different things. Connor was too young; Hank was too old. Awkward double dates and blistering fights over the future had built the tension to an epic crescendo. Connor had thought it was their penultimate fight. He thought they’d talk it out, like they always did, and buy a little more time before they accepted the inevitable.

They’d fight then they’d fuck and everything would look a little better in the morning light. He hadn’t realized it was how Hank had chosen to say goodbye. He hadn’t realized he’d wake up to Hank with a suitcase in his hand and a grim line in place of his mouth.

If he’d known it would be the last, he’d have held on a little tighter. He’d have kissed Hank a little harder when they tumbled into their bed. If he had, he would have stayed awake to soak in every one of their last minutes. He would have run his fingertip down the line of Hank’s nose to remember the diameter, how it widened slightly at the bridge. He would have hidden Hank’s keys to delay his departure.

He would have done everything but say the words Hank needed to hear to make him stay.

Tears welled without falling and Markus had looked at his friend with a mixture of sympathy and frustration. He held his tongue. Connor had been here before, newly single and aching, but it was different this time. He wasn’t sure if Connor could walk away from Hank without leaving an essential piece of himself behind.

Half a year later, and the wound hadn’t come close to healing. It bled on everything Connor did, destroyed every half-hearted attempt at moving on Connor made. He’d thought they could be friends, at least. Maybe it would hurt less if Hank was still in his life, just not quite how he wanted.

They weren’t meant for each other and Connor could live with that if he could hear Hank’s deep, chesty laugh again. If he could see Hank’s blue eyes crinkle at the corners, grinning at something clever Connor had said. He hadn’t anticipated it would hurt Hank less than it had him to end their relationship. He hadn’t expected Hank to find someone new when all Connor could think about was the last time Hank held his hand. He had a habit of running his thumb over Connor’s, stroking the knuckle like a gift.

“You don’t _do_ relationships, Con,” Hank had tried to be gentle. He’d tried to let Connor down easy when he’d turned him away at his door. Hank had someone new and it had taken seeing Hank kiss someone else’s lips for Connor to realize he’d made a hideous mistake. Standing on Hank’s front porch, murdering flower stems beneath shaking hands, he could see the line Hank had drawn between them as clearly as the threshold dividing them. He left the lilies by the door. They were no more welcome than he was, but he couldn’t bear to take them home.

Connor didn’t do commitment or love or all those ridiculous things his friends did. Love only hurt you in the end. It made you vulnerable and weak. It wasn’t until his heart fractured that he understood he wanted those things with Hank. That he could trust Hank to hold his heart without injuring it.

Sitting in his freezing car, unable to go inside his empty house, he wondered if this was how Hank felt that final night. When he’d said the words and Connor’s response had been to silence him with a kiss. Connor’s pulse had throbbed in panic and he did what he’d always done in those moments when Hank tapped on the door of the fortress surrounding Connor’s heart. He’d thought that maybe in the morning, he could find the words. Maybe he could buy himself some time to give Hank what he needed.

But Hank had grown heart weary with waiting and Connor’s mouth had zipped closed tighter than Hank’s suitcase. He’d waited too long and Hank had found happiness with someone else. Connor threw himself into his work, grinding his soul to the nub. It was easier to be exhausted than heartbroken. It was easier to let their texts dwindle to pleasantries until they stopped talking altogether.

One month of silence turned into two and it was a little easier to breathe. Connor erased Hank’s number from his phone with only a small pang of regret. Thoughts of Hank didn’t feel like his heart was ripping to shreds any more. Hank wasn’t active on social media and Connor had long-since stopped checking them regardless. They couldn’t make it work and Connor was learning to be fine with that. He could be happy for Hank without drowning himself in regret.

Connor’s heart eases in fractions as the memories dial back from a deafening roar to thready background music to his new reality. They’d taken him to his knees in the mulchy mix of dilapidated construction and fresh foliage reclaiming the earth.

“Find it yet?” Markus call from the bottom of the escalator and Connor jolts at how loud he sounds.

“Not yet,” Connor calls back, rising above dark daydreams. “I’m going to check farther down. I don’t remember where it was exactly, but I know the kiosk was around here.”

Connor can hear Markus’ disapproval in his silence, but his friend doesn’t hold him back either. Connor knows Markus doesn’t trust the second floor any more than most sane people, but some things are worth finding.

Pinpricks of light splatter the floor like white paint flung at a grungy canvas worn away in spots. With a silent prayer, Connor minces his way across the rapidly diminishing chunks of floor. Markus shadows beneath him, watching him through the glaring holes riddled with wilting rebar as if he could catch Connor if the floor didn’t hold.

More than once, the floor crumbles beneath Connor’s foot moments after he leaps to his next point of perch. He’s fairly certain he has enough floor left to him to make it back, but he doubts repeat trips will be an option. He’ll have to make this one count.

Cheap metals in various stages of tarnish gleam at him from a smashed glass counter, but he’s not interested in the remains of an ear-piercing booth. Still, he’s on the right track. People had mobbed the stores in the early days following the floods and there’s a good chance his search will be fruitless. Even so, he has to try.

The radio at Connor’s hip crackles in alarm and he hears Markus’ do the same, “Get on with it, Connor.” He can hear the edge in Markus’ tone. The mall wasn’t technically out of bounds, but the police were a lot less friendly and a lot less lenient these days this close to curfew. Markus cranks up the volume on his scanner, straining to hear any decipherable words.

“We’ve got time,” Connor calls back softly, pressing his luck for all it’s worth. “They’re miles out and they don’t have wheels anymore.”

Connor’s feet ache at him in agreement. People had traded furiously, paid dearly, for fuel following the fallout. Connor hadn’t bothered. He’d invested in bikes, tires, and spare parts instead. These days, the only way people traveled anywhere was by foot or by bike if they’d planned ahead. Some had even taken up skateboarding to spare their soles the mileage required of basic travel.

“I’m not sticking around for a beating, Connor. Move it.” Markus grapples with the limits of his patience. Friends were few and hard to come by lately, but he wasn’t sure how much he was willing to risk the increased police brutality.

Connor gives Markus a sharp salute in recognition before tearing through weeds and overgrowth. He winces several times as the tender webbing between his fingers tears on random thorns. He muffles a swear when his pinky nail catches sharply enough to rip to the quick. His hand is halfway to his mouth on reflex when he remembers the ongoing sanitation problems. He casts a wary eye on his bleeding hands but presses on. One _has_ to be here.

He strikes literal gold on his second attempt to shovel out the second floor of the mall by hand. He lets out a sharp whoop of victory and Markus’ grim expression softens by a few degrees.

He could pocket his score and try to sell what he doesn’t need, but he’s on thin ice as it is. Fences and black markets cropped up seemingly overnight following the economy’s collapse. What remained of law and order had cracked down hard on illicit sales and price gouging clowns trying to profit on the chaos. He didn’t want to bring that kind of trouble to his front door.

Thumbing the most likely looking option, he wraps his fingers in a fist to secure his find. He scans the remaining slabs of concrete dangling from mesh and support beams, weighing his options. Panic blares in the back of his mind when words begin to feed over the radio.

_…report…_

_…t—…on a bik…_

_—ecking…out…_

Markus practically bobs on his feet, poised to flee as the words filter through. They’d been spotted after all, then.

Markus makes an aborted sound of alarm as Connor leaps and the floor beneath his feet disintegrates one gritty piece at a time like a sickening hour glass. He throws his weight forward and Markus darts away from falling chunks of concrete the size of eroded bricks.

Connor’s fingers scrabble and claw for purchase as his legs churn air in useless panic. Inch by inch, he loses ground and Markus mutters every swear word known to the English language and some in French for good measure. Whether in a stroke of brilliance or luck, he hurls a ramshackle ice cream cart in Connor’s direction as Connor’s fingertips lose their hold on the crumbling second floor. He plummets downward like a human boulder, trying to aim himself feet first with relaxed knees.

He crashes through the remains of the cart’s umbrella canopy, tumbling noisily but largely unhurt to the ground. Before his vision can right itself, Markus hauls him nauseatingly to his knees. Markus’ lips move, but sound can’t permeate the buzzing in Connor’s ears.

Markus’ panic filters through in bits and pieces, “…police…their way…you alri—…C—ner?”

Connor unclenches in fractions, feeling the skin-warmed metal against his palm. He hadn’t dropped it then.

“IDENTIFY YOURSELVES,” a commanding voice barks through Connor’s daze as vague recognition tinkles like a bell hung over an opening door.

“ _Run_ ,” Connor whispers to Markus. Markus shakes his head, staying crouched by Connor’s side. Connor’s bruised, scraped fingers grip Markus by the wrist, “I’ll be fine. _Run!_ ” Markus’ eyes shift from Connor to the rapidly approaching team of officers. He squints to make out their faces, but the lamps held high above their heads obscure their features.

Connor’s remaining nails dig into Markus’ skin before he abruptly yanks Markus into a roll and pushes him away from him hard, “GET AWAY FROM ME!” Connor shrieks the words as if terrified and Markus stumbles at the unexpected tussle.

Connor pulls a knife with an exaggerated shaking hand and winks. Markus’ eyes widen before his mouth droops in understanding. He shuffles backward several steps before taking off at a sprint. The armed police converge on Connor’s prone form. Spread thinner than half an avocado over several slices of toast, they aim their ire at the easier target.

“Hands up, fuck stick,” everyone in town knows this cop, and Connor tries not to groan at his bad luck. This encounter was going to leave some marks. He stops counting after the third strike and an airless gasp spills across his lips when a foot connects with his stomach.

“Enough, Reed,” a uniformed man huffs as he pulls his compatriot back by the collar of his shirt. He squats down and his belly heaves with every breath. He’s out of shape still, but he’s several pounds lighter than Connor remembers. He peers at Connor’s split lip and darkening eye before the spark of realization kindles, “Well, shit.”

He drags Connor to his feet, but he’s not unkind about it. Half his name badge is fractured to a jagged point, but Ben has a memorable face, “Hiya, Ben.”

Ben bobs his head in acknowledgment before muttering into the radio, “Captain, you’re going to want to process this one.” Connor tries to ignore the cold, guilty pit growing in his stomach. He needs to hide his find or this unpleasant exchange would have been for nothing. With Reed watching him and Ben seconds away from searching him, his options scatter like vermin exposed to light.

A rock soars by Connor’s head, nailing Reed in the ear.

“ _Sunovabitch!_ ” Reed whirls and Connor ducks as his gun spins without a care for what lies in its path. He jams his score into his sock, peeling off a layer of skin by his ankle in his haste. He scans his surroundings for any hint of Markus, but his friend had timed his assault well. With any luck, there aren’t any cops outside and Markus can take the bike. He knows Reed won’t prowl the mall alone this close to night. It had been risky enough for Connor and Markus to make a day trip. Everyone knew to stay at home after dark when the criminal element came out to play.

Reed stalks the closest stores and walkways in an irate fury for several minutes and Ben ignores him. He goes through the motions of patting Connor down before cuffing him.

“Sorry about all this,” he mutters under cover of Reed’s inarticulate swearing. “Just…just don’t do anything stupid, ok?”

Connor nods, neglecting to comment that he could classify his coming to the mall during quarantine as stupid. He doesn’t need to hear it from Ben. He knows what comes next.

It takes longer than it usually would for backup to arrive and the captain is less than enthused at being dragged out this close to sundown, “This has better be good, Collins. I don’t have time for bullsh—oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Connor tries to smile, but Hank isn’t having it. Newly promoted and overworked, he’s less than gentle about yanking Connor toward the exit. Reed practically dances ahead of them to open the door, ready to witness the punishment for breaking curfew. It usually involved the liberal application of police batons to the wrongdoer.

Hank shunts Connor toward a bike labeled with _D.P.D._ before unshackling him. His freedom is short-lived as Hank cuffs his hands around the bike’s handlebars. Connor glowers at Reed and the prick has the nerve to shoot him a crooked grin.

The amusement falls off his face like an egg plummeting to the floor when Hank rumbles, “Thanks, Ben. I’ll deal with the paperwork.”

“You can’t fucking do that, Anders—” Hank’s fist jabs upward, punching Reed’s stomach into his lungs. He straightens his clothes, waiting for Reed to stop sucking wind.

By the time his wheezes relax into small puffs, Hank stoops to bring his nose within millimeters of Reed’s face, “Tell me again what I can and can’t do, detective.”

Hank’s quickness to violence is a stark reminder of how much has changed. Ben looks pointedly at the skyline and Reed has the good sense to mutter a vague apology. Ben shifts as if on the verge of speech but shakes his head before making his way toward his scooter.

Hank settles up, straddling the seat of his bike. Connor doesn’t need Hank to tell him what happens next. He does his best to situate himself over the top tube while bracing his feet against the spokes sticking out on either side of the front wheel.

Hank’s silence presses against his back and Connor curls in on himself under the force of Hank’s palpable rage.

When he does speak, Connor feels as if someone boxed his ears, “Of all people, I never thought you’d be the one to cause trouble.”

Connor twists, trying to see Hank’s face, but his precarious perch stops him mid-shift, “Let me explain. I was—”

“I don’t want to hear it. It was dangerous and stupid and _you know better_.” Doubt nibbles at Connor’s gut, but he’s never been one to leave well enough alone.

He leans back against Hank’s chest and Hank’s angry breathing unfurls in plumes down his neck. His arms bracket Connor like metal bars in a sad replica of an embrace, “I’m sorry.” He’s sorry for a lot of things, but he knows Hank is in no mood for a heart-to-heart. Connor isn’t sure he deserves one.

A word is halfway out of Hank’s mouth that could be Connor’s name when his radio screeches harshly in warning. He pedals faster, rising off the seat, and Connor leans forward to make his work easier. Radio towers had gotten better at predicting the chaotic weather, but they were no closer to understanding the cause. Instead, people had learned how to ride out the floods, patch quickly after the quakes, and hope to god the summer blizzards didn’t come again this year. Those cold months had been the closest Connor ever walked to starvation.

“Hold on,” Hank’s mouth mutters somewhere just above his ear, and Connor nearly pitches over the handlebars as the past yanks him into its embrace once more.

_Hold on_.

It had been another lonely weekend of working overtime from home, always trying to get ahead as if he could win at his job. He needed the distraction, thrived on a challenge, and his employer wasn’t about to complain about either of those things.

His internet cut out abruptly and he’d pitched a fit worthy of a four-year-old denied dessert. The cable was out as well, but he wouldn’t know that until after it ceased to matter. He was halfway through unplugging his modem for the second time when his phone began to shriek and wail in alarm.

He’d muttered darkly about unreliable technology, scurrying over to dampen the volume on his cell. His eyes glazed over the words on his screen, not taking in their meaning even as his heart began to race. He could feel his pulse thudding in his skin and it took him several seconds to realize it wasn’t his hands that were shaking. Books tumbled from shelves and plates jittered and danced before crashing to the floor. Connor dashed to his bathroom on instinct to wait out the quaking earth.

True panic didn’t set in until the second seismic tremor followed within minutes of the first. Stronger and more violent, sounds of ripping vinyl assaulted Connor’s ear. If he dared to investigate the sound, he would discover that his neighbor’s house had ripped in half. The earth had opened her jagged maw beneath it to swallow parts of it whole.

His phone pinged ceaselessly issuing warning after warning: earthquakes, gale-force winds, tornados, floods. His mind reeled in overload and it wasn’t until he was halfway through dialing a number that he realized he still knew it by heart.

“Hank.” It’s all he could think to say as rain began to assault his house like it meant to strip it of its paint.

“Connor?” Hank’s voice sounded thin, far away, and calm in a way that suggested he was forcing it. Something boomed loudly and Connor wasn’t sure if it was on Hank’s end or his.

“ _Hank!_ ” The word came out in petrified terror as the roar from outside grew dangerously close. If he could see through the subway tile, he’d know his living room had fractured and sunk into the chasm claiming what remained of his neighbor’s home.

“Con--r!” Hank’s voice warbled alarmingly and Connor clutched his phone like a lifeline. “Sta…put… Hold…n…’m comin—”

The line cut with abrupt finality and Connor stared at the blank screen in mute terror. It might’ve been his last conversation with Hank and all he’d said was Hank’s name.

He doesn’t remember the moments between cell service crumbling and Hank arriving at his front door. He learned later that Hank had to walk across a fallen tree like a tightrope to reach Connor over the half moat that had formed around his home. They rode out the storms huddled together in Connor’s standard-size tub. Connor had clung to Hank’s shirt, inhaling his aftershave and wrinkling the collar of Hank’s button-down underneath his terrified fingers. Hank had run his palms over Connor’s head, his arms, his face, murmuring assurances as his own strong hands trembled.

When the dawn yawned across the confused landscape the following day, there was enough death to send the city reeling into a keen of unfathomable grief. Communication was down and no one would know for several weeks the extent of the damage. The second wave came in a form of torrential rain that filled the cracked earth like muddy pools, daring survivors to take a swim.

It took a month for Hank to realize they would never go back to _normal_. It took Connor the better part of six weeks to understand his job didn’t matter anymore. What use was a data analyst without any data much less the tools to parse it?

He didn’t ask where Hank’s live-in boyfriend had gone. He didn’t show his disappointment when Hank offered his spare room. He didn’t balk when Hank appeared in his doorway sometime after two in the morning.

Hank’s lips found his and Connor’s head swam like a virgin drunk on wine coolers for the first time. If Hank had expected sex, he didn’t show his disappointment when Connor tucked his head against Hank’s neck and sobbed instead. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried and years of repressed emotions streamed down his face as Hank’s heavy hands held him close, pressing into his spine.

“Hold on,” Hank’s voice hooks Connor by the navel and reels him back into the present. He shivers as the temperature plummets around them and fat raindrops pelt their faces in presage of the devastation to come. He twists his hands, one straight on and one reversed, to grip the handlebar as Hank weaves them between the decaying carcasses of cars, SUVs, and trucks that dot the strip of highway that remains between them and home.

Hank doesn’t stop to uncuff Connor’s hands as he steers them into his driveway. Connor nearly topples over as Hank abandons the bike to unbar and yank at the garage door. It costs them several precious seconds as Hank’s hands fly down lock after lock. Hail bites into Connor’s skin, growing in size at an alarming rate. By the time Hank snags both Connor and the bike, the ice balls are larger than dimes and leave welts on their skin.

Adrenaline surges through Connor’s veins despite being within the relative safety of Hank’s garage. They need to move the sandbags and reinforce the windows. Hank mutters darkly under his breath, shooting an angry glance at Connor as he unbinds his hands.

They work in silence, doing the things they both know they must if the house is going to make it through the latest storm. The necessity of motion keeps Hank’s anger at bay, but Connor knows he’s rapidly running out of time to diffuse the situation.

The third time Hank checks the waterproofing of the doors and windows, Connor finds his voice, “Hank.” Hank ignores him, fiddling with the lock for the umpteenth time.

Connor reaches out to touch his wrist and Hank’s hand flies away from him as if burned, “ _Don’t._ ”

Connor’s resolve wavers and thunder claps with almost as much force as Hank’s reproach. The room darkens with freighting speed as murderous purple clouds belch out heavy curtains of rain.

“Hank, please.” Hank ignores him in favor of adding an unnecessary binding to the nearest sandbag. He moves with a new efficiency born out of the increased crime; Hank knows his way around a zip tie. Connor’s wrists burn where the cuffs had chewed into his skin.

Connor rips off his shoe to dig around in his sock. He needs Hank to know, to understand. He’s already on his knees, but he’s not sure how far he has to fall for Hank to notice him.

Hail cracks the window and beats at the front door as if it knows no one will let it in. Hank’s shoulders stiffen with each second as stress winds itself into a tight knot on the verge of rending. Connor waits and his heart throbs at him to act.

He’s almost certain Hank hears him swallow before he speaks, “Han—”

The word isn’t fully out of his mouth before Hank lifts a swift hand, beheading the attempt at conversation, “I said _don’t_.”

Connor doesn’t remember throwing the shoe, but the sound of the lamp shattering files itself away in his permanent memory, “ _LOOK AT ME!_ ”

His voice comes out high and a touch hysterical. It isn’t how he ever pictured this moment, but everything is a little harder now. Everything worth doing takes more steps, more patience, more setbacks.

Hank whirls, ready to wad up words into an enraged ball to hurl with all his might. The hot air wheezes out of him when he sees Connor genuflecting at his feet. Hank sinks until he’s eye level with Connor as comprehension slams into him with more force than the hail pummeling the house.

Connor has never been good with emotional declarations. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s managed to say the words Hank needed to hear since the world had turned upside down and tried to shake itself free of humanity.

Unspent adrenaline from the fall, the police, the flight to safety wracks his hand with violent trembling, but his voice remains steady, “It was dangerous and it was stupid.”

Hank’s blue eyes rise wearily to meet Connor’s gaze as Connor repeats Hank’s earlier admonition back to him. He doesn’t refute him or try to take it back, but the harsh edges bracketing his mouth soften.

“I know better,” Connor continues agreeing with Hank’s under-informed assessment, “but I would do it again.”

Hank’s eyes burn red at the rims before he closes them, leaning slightly to bring their foreheads together. His hand comes to rest over Connor’s palm, not quite taking what he’s offering. Connor’s heart hammers against his ribs and he wonders if Hank can hear it over the storm.

“I’m bad at this. I fuck up a lot. And it hurts you. I don’t mean to,” Connor pulls back to watch Hank’s face, stumbling over what he wants to say. “I don’t give you—don’t tell you—the things you need. But I thought maybe I could show you.”

He isn’t sure if he’s imagining it or if Hank is shaking apart as badly as Connor is. He clasps Hank’s hand between his, cradling it like a fragile thing.

The closer he circles to the crux of it, the tighter his chest squeezes on his lungs. By the time he finds his voice again, it’s too high and too fast, “I just. I want time. With you. However it looks.”

“You don’t want this, Con,” Hank’s words ooze like blood seeping from poorly stitched wounds. “You don’t owe this to me. It’s not why I came for you.”

Connor’s eyes blaze with honeyed intensity, willing Hank to look at him, “That’s not why I stay.”

Hank’s resolve cracks and Connor can see the raw pain Hank nurses with whiskey more nights than not, “I’ve done things. Horrible things since everything went to shit. I can hardly stand to look at myself while I shave. Can barely touch you without…”

He fades off into silence, but Connor doesn’t need Hank to finish the thought. He knows how bad things have gotten on the streets. He knows Hank’s been burdened with acting as judge, jury, and executioner as law enforcement clings doggedly to what remains of the city. There’s zero tolerance for violence and severe penalties for theft or breaking curfew. Connor knows he’s lucky to have gotten away from his encounter with the police with only a black eye and a bruised gut.

He’s pushed his luck, pushed Hank, to the limit, but he begs for just a fraction more, “You’ve tried to shield me. I know. You think I don’t, but people talk.”

Hank bristles, ready to embrace anger to avoid the hurt. He’s primed to lay bare every god awful thing he’s had to do in the name of law and order, to keep Connor safe, just to prove Connor wrong. Because Connor can’t possibly know. If he did, he would be afraid.

If he did, he would leave.

He wouldn’t risk his neck, risk brutality and worse, to offer Hank this ring.

“I lost you once before,” Hank hardly hears Connor over the roar of his racing mind, but some part of him tries to rein in his rage. He doesn’t want Connor to remember him like this.

Connor’s fingers fisting into his hair shocks his panic into a brief recession. Connor is too close, too bright, too good for him now. He tries to pull away, but Connor’s grip is unyielding despite his abraded fingertips and palms.

“I was afraid of you then,” words tumble across his tongue like a waterfall, pinning Hank in place with their weight. “I was afraid of your love. I didn’t know how to be what you needed. I didn’t know how to let you in. So I let you go.”

Connor sweeps a knuckle over the ridge of Hank’s cheek and it comes away dripping. Tears cling to the thick band of gold Connor hooked through his thumb for safekeeping.

Hank doesn’t resist when Connor straddles him to wrap his too-thin biceps around Hank’s neck. Hank’s arms hang limply at his sides as Connor’s words whisper warmly against his ear, “I’m holding onto you this time. I lost you once to fear. I’m not about to lose you to despair.”

Something heavy and sharp cracks in Hank’s chest. A wounded beast bellows louder than the storm outside and it isn’t until his throat is raw that he realizes he’s sobbing into Connor’s grimy shirt. He smells like sweat and dirt and comfort. Being in Connor’s arms, returning his grip with an intensity bordering on bruising, feels like coming home after months of self-inflicted isolation.

They stay that way well after the storm passes. It’s weaker than most and only the garage has standing water. Hank’s radio squeals once before slender, pale fingers mute the unnecessary chatter. The city won’t fall apart any worse because Hank took a night off from bearing the responsibility of saving it.

They eat a typical meal of canned vegetables, soggy rice, and some potted meat Connor doesn’t want to think too hard about. Modern plumbing failed in the first weeks of the chaos, but the rain barrel and gravity work well enough for their makeshift outdoor shower. It’s dark and they don’t have neighbors anymore anyway. They’d moved away, one by one, as Hank’s job became more of a burden than a blessing.

Hank’s gaze lingers for too long on the unlit houses, and Connor turns his face with a gentle hand. He starts with Hank’s hands, dragging the rock-beaten and threadbare rag between each finger. He washes away the dirt and darkness, brushing feather-light kisses where clean skin emerges from the muck. Inch by inch, he scrubs Hank clean until his skin turns pink under a diminishing full moon.

In the dim starlight of their bedroom, Connor places the ring on Hank’s chest, “You don’t have to wear it, but I want you to have it. For better or worse.”

Hank’s fingers stroke at the sturdy band and he exhales a quiet, shaky, “Okay.”

It’s a promise. It’s a fragile hope for a better tomorrow, month, year. He’ll wear it when he’s ready. For now, he carries Connor’s love around his neck on a chain like a talisman against his fears. It rests against his heart as a reminder of the man he wants to be.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WorseMake).


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